Metamorphosis
by December Sapphire
Summary: "Yes?" His voice is musical. When I hear it I want to jump into an ocean of neon lights and get swallowed by the aftermath of rainbow electricity. I cannot find the words. I am stuck. I take a deep breath, knowing it's now or never. This is my only chance. "Sesshomaru, it's Rin, I need your help." [Sequel to Midnight in Summer.] [Dark] The story continues... (on hold)
1. I: Accidental Meetings

**A/N: **_This story is a companion/sequel to _Midnight In Summer _that happens 500 years later. I do highly recommend you read the six chapters of _Midnight In Summer _before reading this._

Thanks to **Mi Ling Chi** for editing.

**Warning:** _I am only going to say this once, this story is dark. There is use of coarse language and violent scenes. Be cautious. Thank you! _

**Disclaimer: **Any character of Rumiko Takahashi's don't belong to me.

**Metamorphosis**

**By:** December Sapphire

* * *

Chapter I

Accidental Meetings

_"It's not more surprising to be born twice than once; everything in nature is resurrection."- _Voltaire

* * *

_He held my hand and watched the blood pool at my legs. The pain -intense, unbearable- like someone had lit my insides on fire while stabbing my flesh over and over again. The need to push every time the contractions came, urging to kill whatever was inside. I could not bear this._

_The man stood beside me, his hand –long and clawed-like - holding mine tightly. I cannot let go. I was afraid, terrified. If I let go, would my life end?_

_I feel it coming; it rips my flesh apart as I cry out in agony. In my ear, he whispers soft words but I only hear foreign sounds._

_Beep, beep, beep._

_The loud sounds enter my ears; I focus on those sounds and nothing else. Everything around me, my body, the hand in mine, goes numb. Only the sounds beside me are noticed._

_I want to believe I'll get out of this, survive this moment. I want to believe I will see my child's eyes, but deep down, I know, it's impossible._

_Unknown voices try to call my name. My name? What was my name? My mind is failing, the darkness is falling, and I am descending. I cannot comprehend what is happening. All I see right now is gold, a piercing, fierce gold in the eyes of the man beside me. Who is he again? I can't remember. All I can seem to remember is the numbing pain between my legs and the constant noise beside me._

_Beep, beep, beep._

_The noise, rhythmic, starts to slow quickly. Darkness erupts in my vision. I am fading, I know it. I am leaving, my body is dying., I cannot hold any longer. The noise goes flat; I fade away, hearing the last small sound of nothing but a soft cry of a newborn babe._

* * *

Dreams are nothing more than an illusion in one's mind. Tricking the brain into thinking the dream world is real and believing it's reality. It's this which makes people insane, senile, and gets them locked away for life in an asylum. Day after day they would undergo treatment, therapy, making them even sicker than before. In their head, they think of a better life, hope for freedom from this dire time of captivity. The doctor, sicker than them, makes everyone think that it's fine. It's fine to be afraid. It's fine to see things that cannot be seen by others. Have visions. Relive dreams. It's fine. They call it normal. But it's nothing close to being normal.

Thankfully, I am not one of these people. I do not reside in an insane asylum, undergoing treatment day after day. Although, I believe I should from the things I have seen in my dreams, still, I know they are nothing more than an illusion. Reality is real life. It should be focused on more than dreamland, where every fantasy, every fear comes to life. I need to focus more on reality.

Call it coincidence but there is one dream that occurs almost every night. The quenching, aching feeling in my chest when I bolt up in cold sweats is indescribable. Insomnia becomes my best friend, being thankful for not sleeping that night, and not enduring yet another episode of the fermenting reds painted all over the wooden floors, the summer heat radiating off my skin, the scratchy and dry sensation in my throat, my chest feeling as though it is about to burst, and _his_ horrifying laugh as he uses my body as his toy. I shiver thinking about such animosities. Still, there is one good thing about the dream, a man, or possibly something else. He's the reason I think about my sanity.

This man…this creature wasn't human. The first time I saw him in my dreams I thought he was, but later I realized my brain was tricking me into believing he was nothing more than a superhero in a comic book. This being looks like a god, dazzling, captivating, and too perfect to be real. Yet, he was. His long silver strains would often fly through the air, revealing pointed ears as if elven in nature. Then there were his piercing golden eyes, hard enough to cut a diamond into two, but to me, they looked so soft, so warm. I did not know this stranger's name but from the way he looked at me and stayed by my side I realized that he cared. I do not know why, but my connection with his creature was powerful. I never wanted to stray far from his presence.

Still, it was only a dream. I could not lose myself and fall into fantasy. My dreams weren't real. But if they weren't real, why were they so reoccurring?

My father believes that life is nothing more than a reincarnation, that once we were someone else, I don't though. It's ridiculous to think such things, and a waste of time. But my father has a large imagination and thinks that I was once nothing more than a farm girl in feudal Japan. Who knows though, he could be right.

The old man believes anything these days however. Over the years I come to realize that perhaps he is growing too old too fast. His wrinkles increase in numbers each year as well as the grey hairs on his head. His teeth, stained yellow from smoking tobacco since the young age of fifteen, are starting to show signs of erosion. My mother cringes at how long he has left. Still, the man seems more lively then me, going day by day, teaching me everything he knows.

My step- mother is different. Her mind doesn't think for itself. She cowers in fear when something happens outside in the real world. She is what I could qualify as mentally ill. In the last five years I have only seen her leave the house twice. The woman never eats, barely sleeps, and wallows in her depression most of the day. She is nothing more than a ticking time bomb waiting to erupt into mayhem.

The two older brothers I have are the same as any regular brothers anyone would have. They are crazy, protective, and will do anything to make sure I don't fall into the hands of a boy. But I don't need a boy to control my life. I am fine the way I am- single.

Still, I want to know what it's like to be loved. To have a man kiss me, love me; make me feel like a well-deserved girl. But at the end of the day, it does not matter.

The day starts once more, like a grandfather clock that dinged every hour. The sleepless night has ended and my mind has escaped yet another horrifying nightmare. The bed creaked and groaned from years of abuse. Patterns. Sad flower patterns splatter the comforter that covers my bed since I grew out of my crib. The click and slide. The scrap and drag. Sounds of metallic rings slide across aluminum rod and drag a heavy black curtain, stained with calcium and lime, across the old rotten floorboards. The water is turned freezing cold until warmness sets in. In the mornings I take my time, washing out the night sweats coating my flesh.

Downstairs, scratches of a spatula run across a rusted pan. Smells of bacon shoot into my nostrils. Noises of crackling and popping, full of fat from the sizzling cow, I pop an isoniazid.

My mornings are often a bore. I have nothing to do but to sit and listen to my mother lecture about subjects she doesn't know how to teach. I guess this is what I get for being home schooled and not having any friends besides my brothers. I am fine with my life though. I didn't have to go through the paralyzing feeling of being tormented or harassed. Drama has never tempted me.

My father's coffee mug stains the table with incomplete rings of light brown. My mother huffs in annoyance, pestering my father into cleaning it up. Over the years the table has gotten permanent marks of everything, coffee, bleach, and blood paints the old wood like an over sized tattoo.

A spatula waves into the air towards my brother who wears his bacon as a fatty mustache. I laugh a bit, playing with my unhappy meal in front of me. "Don't play with your food, Rin," my mother also tells me. Her voice demanding yet shaken.

I knew right away she had taken too many of her pills this morning, making her candy eyed. My father doesn't notice and only flips through the week old newspaper, ripped, wrinkled, and stained, smoking on his morning tobacco.

Over the years I've gotten used to the smell. I don't smoke it, but I was positive my lungs have inhaled more than enough from just being around him.

I cough, my lungs poking inside my chest.

"Did you take your pills, Rin?" my mother asked, waving the spatula towards my direction again.

I nod silently, knowing how much they don't care. I wasn't the forgetful type and knew how much those pills meant to me.

Jiro, one of my brothers, clicks his tongue. There is something on his mind. "So Rin, did you sleep last night?"

He should already know the answer. I ignore him and only pick my food more.

"Hey!" he said, snapping his fingers.

I slide my chair across the heavy tile floors, screeching against the stone, standing up. "I don't need to tell you."

"I'll take that as a no," he answers, following my lead to the empty, sad, dishwasher. "Still having those dreams, eh?"

I look at him, mentally warning him to back off. There was no need for a reminder of my dreams.

My Father jumps into the conversation, placing his newspaper down and smoking out rings from his rotten mouth. "Rin, you need more sleep, it isn't healthy. Especially in your condition."

I want to tell him Mom needed more sleep then I did but there was no need for a morning argument. I wasn't in the mood.

I only nod at his suggestion. But will I do what he says? - No. My Father never apologized nor did I. He didn't have any regrets so he never felt guilt or remorse. Even for my Mother, his feelings were tiresome. I respect that in a sense that it's a simple way to live. Dangerous, but simple. Was I not my father's daughter, this man of a few words, a product of his nature?

Sometimes I wished I had friends. So I could escape the time I had left with my family. It wasn't as though I didn't love them, but the feeling of longing towards anyone besides my old stuffed teddy bear was impossible to describe. The more I thought about people my age around me the more I didn't like it. Perhaps it was my conscious being careful. My mind, terrifying and sickening, would be too much for human's mortality. Their brains wouldn't function properly like an old rundown car impossible to fix. Leaking blood instead of oil. Running down pale flesh. Drip. Drip. Drip. Causing a pool of red liquid to cover the floor and stain it forever. Malicious thoughts would fill their heads. Virulent. Cataclysmic end.

I wonder where I would go if my family wasn't around. Would they place me in some kind of orphanage? Or an asylum, where I truly belong. I would pick the asylum any day. At least I wouldn't have to cause the children disturbing thoughts about blood painted walls and scream in fright after midnight when I awake from another dreaded nightmare. In a way, I would be doing them a favor.

After hours upon hours of non-stop talking from my Mother's mouth, I get invited to the store with my Father and brothers. I'd rather go with them and hear them backtalk each other, spitting saliva ten feet away, then sit in a cold house with my Mother waiting for her to do something psychopathic. Still, I'd rather be with her then with my birth Mother.

I can still recall sitting in boiling hot water, at the age of eight, burning into the lower levels of my skin, scarring parts of my flesh. My birth mother, a sociopath, dunking my head and waiting until the small bubbles escaping my mouth seized, stopping my heart from beating. Vision shakes. Screams detonate. Still, I wonder why I lived, waking up hours later, doctors and nurses talking fast words to my Father. The slow dripping of the clear IV, attached gently under my skin. The loud noises of the heart monitor, reminding me that I'm lying in a hospital.

Died. I had died once. The words formed as clear as rain out of the doctor's mouth while the others were hard to understand. For three minutes I had tasted freedom.

I had wondered once what it would be like to die. My reoccurring dream tells me it's safe, an escape clause from reality. I don't want to try it.

I still doubt the government-curiosity, I suppose- on why they never took my brothers and I away. Perhaps it was my father, a past lawyer, who denied any related causes from my Mother towards my first death.

Still, that didn't stop them from sending her to prison where she would commit suicide months later.

Sometimes I imagine that I have a guardian angel. Someone who is looking over me without my knowledge. I think about the stranger in my dreams that cares for me so much, protecting me whenever I need protection. The stranger who cared I have nicknamed him.

As we drive to the store, the Volkswagen growls. Effects from not maintaining over the years start to show. Rust builds. Tires deflate. Engine weakens. Leather fades. I ignore any speech or sound from inside the car. Argued words come from my brother Ichiro beside me. My Father's hands on the wheel tighten to the point where his knuckles turn white as snow. I sigh and glace outside the window. Rain patters heavily. Small drops reflect my image upside down. Nothing in my ears is entering except the sweet sound of Heart and Pink Floyd, blocking every other annoyance.

I try to clear my thoughts of this terrible day. My mind wishing for sunshine to warm the air and flesh. A tidal wave of heat to overwhelm every sense in the body and core. Summer. I craved it.

Inside the store, people shuffle by, picking up their necessities for the week. The same old aged cheese, bread, milk, and eggs stock their carts in hoping for a better life. Single mothers on welfare hush crying children who ask for more, more, more. During this time, my brothers still argue to the point where my Father nearly bursts a blood vessel. I bore from this and wander into a different aisle. My headphones still tightly in my ear, I glance at forgotten books on the shelves. The sad covers bestowed on them without the author's choice.

I glance at them one by one singing low the song of Money by Pink Floyd. I get a stare from passing customers, thinking I was a lost child looking for their Mother. But I wasn't lost. I was only forgotten.

After spending wasted time on looking at covers like art in a gallery I turn to head back to my lost family. My heels turn down the straight lane and into a hard object. I gasp as gravity pulls me down. A hand grasps my forearm. My eyes widen. Brown orbs peer down at me. Piercing. Narrowed slightly. His hair, long, black as midnight itself, hangs loosely around his toned shoulders. I cannot fathom what is happening. My brain freezes my body on the spot. I lose sight of reality and enter my dreams.

What is standing before me cannot be real. He is only existent in my other world, the world I am afraid to go each night. Yet here he stands, almost the same as him. His ears, round, still hold a slight point. His facial feature, hard yet calm, carry a gentle expression. Was I going past the point of insanity?

"I-I am sorry," I stutter, my voice lost with words.

Eyes narrow even more. "It's fine," he replies, enunciating slowly, like he was also lost with words. His voice, filled with venom, was angelic. Rhythmic. Song like.

Still, there is something inside me urging for more information. I know I have seen this man in my dream but there was something about him that pulled curiosity towards my brain. That not only have I seen him in my dreams, but in reality as well.

"Um…do I know you?" I ask, shifting my weight from one foot to another.

He blinks once. Twice. Thrice. "No."

My heart drops. I don't know why. It feels as if my crush has denied my confession, spinning my life in abjection.

"What is your name?" he asks, stepping an inch closer.

Parents always tell children to never talk to strangers. To never tell them information. Yet- second nature, maybe- my brain could not stop itself from confessing. "Rin," I tell him, my voice reluctant and heavy.

I hear a small sound escape his mouth. A small 'hn' enters my ears from where Pink Floyd once sounded.

"What about you?" I ask too quickly, sounding almost desperate. "What's your name?"

He pauses, looking into a point in the distance. "It's Sesshomaru."

I never knew the name of the creature- the stranger who cared- in my dreams. But this name…sounded so familiar, so recognizable. I had heard the name before; I just couldn't place the location.

"Rin!" the call of my name pulls me toward it. I turn to see Jiro waving to me at the end of the aisle. "Time to go! Dad wants to get home before Mom does something bad."

He shouts too loud. My face reddens from embarrassment.

"That's my family," I said, glancing at my feet. "I have to go. It was nice meeting you, Sesshomaru."

He nods once and takes my hand. I jump back but his grip tightens. Then he steps away, holding the same emotionless expression. Inside my palm is a small piece of paper with numbers. I know what this means.

"You…interest me, Rin," he said.

And he leaves without another word.

* * *

.:Sapphire:.


	2. II: Unfortunate Events

A/N: I know its starting off a little depressing but don't worry, things will get better!

Chapter II

Unfortunate Events

_"And what might seem to be a series of unfortunate events may, in fact, be the first steps of a journey"- _Lemony Snicket

* * *

Dry air raddles through the broken vent above my bed. Small amounts of dust and dead skin float around in the air, fleeing into my lungs. A spider, as large as a peanut, scurries across the ceiling. These are the things I pay attention to. My life is not exciting, important. I'd rather observe the small things instead of the big things.

I lie here in bed. The sad, flower comforter wrinkled and messed from tossing and turning. The pale blue lamp beside my head illuminates the room in a heavy yellow glow. My fingers toss the rolled paper in my hands, soft against my skin from being scrunched in my pocket for days. The numbers in black ink faded like a five hundred year old painting. I have yet to call this stranger's number- Sesshomaru- but I can't seem to find the will to throw it away.

The creaking and clicking. The slamming of the bathroom door and the rough sound of water running through rusted pipes. My father is up.

Bright red numbers on the digital clock read five o'clock. Once again I have survived yet another night of nightmares.

Horror is a subjective term. What horrifies one, doesn't bother another. Some people don't get affected and walk around a haunted mansion without a problem. I want to say I am one of these people, that I am not afraid of things that go bump in the night. My birth mother's attempted homicide on me didn't traumatize me but it did put me into a state of fear. I didn't dare to tread near water sometimes and my Father often had to use sponges to erase the layer of dead skin on my body. But I wasn't afraid of her.

I remember listening to the bylaw's conversation with my father one day, telling him that my birth mother had died, killed herself. They had gone on in saying she had been found in a tub full of red liquid, with her wrists slit. In my mind I can still imagine my Mother's body lying in the bathtub full of blood and water. She has been there decomposing, just long enough to see fresh purple and green bruises form on her pale skin. Slash marks right between the elbow and wrist, visibly infected and still oozing with the scent of blood and decaying flesh.

The slow ache returns in my chest. I cough. Blood pumping through my body and into my heart- it beats fast. The coughs increase. I wheeze. Merciful thoughts surround my inner brain, pleading my lungs to stop the pain. My hand, covered with the sweet and sticky smell of fermenting blood, rest over my mouth. Savage agony.

When this happens I am sent to the hospital and get treated as if I have cancer. Hospitals are not the place I wish to be. The bright white walls painted along the interior of the building have sucked in every soul that death has come for. Ghosts fill the halls in search of answers. The depressive feeling of corpses in the morgue can be felt all over the building. The smell of medicine, blood, and others blend into the air. The constant sound of heart monitors and the IV drip flowing gently into an easy delivery in the vein.

I do not notice my Father rushing into my room with an oxygen tank in hand. He grabs my bloodied hand away from my mouth and replaces it with a clear mask. The invisible element fills my lungs, stopping my coughing for now.

Everything is red. My comforter, sheets, and the front of my body is covered the sticky substance of red liquid. Fresh tears dampen my face, mixing in with the blood. My eyes grow heavy, an aftereffect of the pain. I fall once again into the dismal fate of dreamland.

* * *

_Unknown voices try to call my name. My name? What was my name? My mind is failing, the darkness is falling, and I am descending. I cannot comprehend what is happening. All I see right now is gold, a piercing, fierce gold in the eyes of the man beside me. Who is he again? I can't remember. All I can seem to remember is the numbing pain between my legs and the constant noise beside me._

_Beep, beep, beep._

_The noise, rhythmic, starts to slow quickly. Darkness erupts in my vision. I am fading, I know it. I am leaving, my body is dying. I cannot hold any longer. The noise goes flat; I fade away, hearing the last small sound of nothing but a soft cry of a newborn babe._

* * *

_To what it was or who it was shocked me with disbelief. His features haven't changed since the last time. His piercing, golden eyes still focused on the horizon, deep in thought. His long, silver hair remained beautiful showing off a soft glow in the summer sun. His facial marking- a dangerous signature- stood out perfectly sculpted. He is the stranger who cared, the man who haunted my dreams, the man who, out of everyone, I thought would come the save me. He is the man I loathed and who deeply directed me as a burden and a cripple. He is my first love, my first regret. The Western Lord everyone feared is nothing more than a stranger from my past, now remained only feet away._

_"Why are you here?" my voice cracking from the dry feeling in my throat._

_He is silent and remains so for a period of time. It isn't until I start to move up into a sitting position when I hear his voice for the first time. "You shouldn't move."_

_Still, I ignore his instructions and lean against a tree opposite of him. My eyes narrow on everything about him. How could this demon be here in my presence? "Don't you have a kingdom to run?" I ask in a harsh tone._

_Then his eyes land on me, making me flinch slightly. For minutes all I feel is the glare he points at me. Was he testing me in some way?_

_The sun above casted shadows in the area alerting me to reality, that everything, including him, was all an illusion. He is not real, he never was. He is a figment in my mind, it is the only explanation. So I manage to stand on my feet. A warning growl came from the illusion, threatening me. I only ignored it more._

_It was past sunrise and Akuma will surely know my absence. Without falter, I begin to walk away from my mind. But as soon as I put pressure to the ground with my feet, I loose sense in direction and gravity pulls me once again to the unforgiving ground. But something stops me. Strong arms are wrapped protectively around my body. "Foolish girl," he says._

_He places me back against the tree and stares into the sky. Sometimes I wonder what goes through his mind. Even as a child, I was so curious what made him what he is today. "Why are you here?" I ask again, quieter than before._

_"You requested my presence, did you not?"_

* * *

Once again I bolt from the repetition of another dream. Sweat sticks to my skin in a thick layer. Strands of my hair are plastered against my forehead and cheekbones. Heavy breaths escape my mouth. Blood is still evident on the comforter and clothing. My Father must've not bothered with the change and left without a sound.

I cannot tell what time is current but the rhythmic pattering of the rain against my foggy window lets me know it is past sunrise.

The dream still sticks in my head. A vile question left unanswered rings throughout my brain. I cannot fathom what my answer was or what it should be. The creature that haunted my dreams had appeared once again and yet, I did not know why.

I could not see his face. Still, his silver strands glistened in the moonlight. Golden eyes glowed. A killer look. Voice profound. Recognizable still. The man in the store sounding just the same.

My fingers trace the numbers of the soft paper fabric. The future was a mystery for now, but if I called would it change? It could be so simple, like the wings of a butterfly causing a tragic destruction on the other side of the world. Thousands of lives lost. Violent disturbance. Climacteric.

The spider above my head still lingers. I watch with blurry vision and dehydrated eyes as the spider starts to crawl to a corner of the room. Eight legs move up the wall and onto the ceiling. Stillness. Settling in the corner like a hawk.

I wonder what spiders really think. Is this one is spying on me, plotting some kind of revenge for his kind? Was the spider aware of the universe outside of its own? Were we?

The sound of my door opening alerts me to my visitor. Jiro enters with a mug of steaming liquid, evaporating two inches above the rim of the cup. He hands it to me and glances around the bare room.

Purple. Pale purple paint peals and cracks off the damaged walls. Holes are covered by old band posters set there when I was twelve when I threw a lamp across the room out of frustration. Childish dreams lost. Forgotten memories remembered.

Jiro paces around the room. He plays with the ripped clear purple curtains, glancing out into the grey sky. My eyes follow his movement, curious to know why he came.

"Hey," I said, sitting upright.

"How are you?" he asks, mumbling at the floor.

"Better. But I still wish I hadn't slept. I don't think I'll eat today though. My dreams are starting to cause me nausea. They're too real."

"At least you got some rest," he smiled, sitting down beside me. "I was getting worried about you, sis."

His eyes moved toward the red paint around my body. I quickly shield it, mentally hoping he will avoid the subject.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Rin?" he asked, his eyes cast with worry.

"I can't help what I've been cursed with. No matter how many times I go through this motion, it always feels like the first time. Just don't go crazy when I die. We go fucking ballistic when someone dies. Like Father, when our Mother committed suicide. It's basically anal sex."

Jiro raised his eyebrow at me and tilted his head slightly. After a few seconds of pure silence, he blinks chuckling softly. "Anal," he repeats.

"Yup. Anal."

Shaking his head, he lifts himself back onto his feet. "You're the weirdest person I know. I hope the guy you end up with doesn't end up doing something drastic." Jiro closed his eyes, exhaling in a long breath. "Drink up and get some more rest, sis. Don't want you to leave us just yet."

I roll my eyes lazily. "Don't worry, I still have unfinished business of getting back at you and Ichiro for all the years you've tormented me."

He laughs and disappears from my room.

* * *

For hours I lay in my bed, evident that I am still covered with now dried up blood. I find no point to clean up, knowing that the event would just repeat itself. I call it a curse that I am plagued. My Father and brothers are as healthy as a prize winning horse on steroids. Even my mother, heavily on bipolar and depression drugs, is healthier than me. I cannot fathom what will happen when I will die. I cannot live knowing that my life has been shortened fifty years.

I want to drown in the afterglow of immortality, sinking in a rainbow ocean of electricity and melted faces that sprout gold. I want to feel the loud noise, rampant sound sensations that smell of chocolate rain. The imagination so terrifying, so alluring, that it leaves deposits of recollection in the darkest parts of the mind. Vivid dreams of the everlasting sun and summer heat staining the skin a deep pink, burning. Pulchritudinous.

Loud shots ring through the house. Screams echo through my bedroom. I am stunned by this sudden sound. More, and more, and more arise, directing downstairs. Curious and confused I settle quickly on my feet, wobbling. Head rush.

My hand turns the bronze door knob, shaking to see what I will find. I shuttered as a loud creak rang from the rusted nails in the door. I froze, the door partially open, as male voice, unrecognizable, sung upstairs. These voices aren't my families.

They are rough, like sandpaper against skin. Horst and quick. My breathing hitches, footsteps echo up the stairs, slowly moving towards my room. I close my door quick, panicking. The harsh voices grow closer, reminding me of the villain who uses me in my nightmares.

My brain isn't listening. My feet move on their own. I land in my closet, buried deep within the corner. Voices enter my private room. There are three of them and they are all looking for me. In my mind I am curious about my family. Were they shot, killed in cold blood and lying on the kitchen floor with deep bullet wounds in their heart?

A tight feeling in my chest erupts once again, warning me about another attack. I hold my breath, praying the men would leave before I explode.

"There is blood on the bed," I hear one say, the sounds of sheets moving around.

"Well whoever was here is probably dead now," another answered.

I shut my eyes tight, wishing for this to end. This living nightmare to die.

"We should burn this house to the ground so the police don't start taking samples of everything."

"Good idea."

A small fraction of light shines through the closet door as it opens slightly. I freeze, holding my breath. In the small crack between boxes I can see the eyes of my family's killer, narrowed, strong…familiar. He looks just like him- Akuma was his name- in my dreams.

I don't know whether to jump out and use a random office tool to slaughter him, stabbing with simple pen in his eye and digging it deep within his brain. Or remain still, being labeled as a coward.

I am a coward, and they shut my door with a loud slam.

Moments later I emerge, shaken but alive. The house is quiet, silent. The men are gone.

I rush out of my room, immediate smelling the gas emitting from the stove. The carbon monoxide. Downstairs in the kitchen is a pool of blood evident of the screams and slaughter that occurred earlier. My Father, his face pale and frozen, presents a small bullet hole in his head, seeping blood slowly. My mother and two brothers, cut down by a simple butchers knife from the table, their necks slashed with long laceration marks. I cannot scream, only stare. My eyes remained on their cuts-curiosity perhaps- wondering what is must feel like to die. Did they suffer? Will I?

For now, my current objective is to escape the house. My family is gone but I'm not. I run out the back door, coughing from the gas. The fresh night air clearing my brain as I run to the back yard gate. My breathing deep, uneven.

Gravity pulls me down as I hit damp grass. Green mixes in with the dried blood. Mud covers my body. I am a mess, but okay.

The crack and bang. Fire swallows the interior of my home. The smell of decaying flesh burning quickly - turning black. Flames swallow old wood used to construct the building. The creaking and groan. Heat radiates off, burning my skin slightly.

I make my way around the front, my body shaking from the bitter cold of night. Early spring and frost still is reoccurring. Rain starts to patter down. First only a sprinkle but soon turns into a full out shower, damping my body head to toe. Sirens in the distance ring through the night, their song evident to their arrival. I remain frozen in my spot- in front of the house-, my legs giving out as I drop to the wet ground on my knees.

I do not turn as the fire truck and others arrive. I only stare at the dancing flames, engulfing my home and taking it to Hell. The fermenting reds, oranges, and yellows mix together propelling me into a trance like state.

Soon I am being pulled up, examined from paramedics. Moving mouths. Sound on mute. Men in large tan suits circling the house, using a long hose to water down the fire. Tall tower of dark smoke. Steam.

I am placed in the back of a white van- ambulance. Its sirens blare through my brain. I scream.

My hands are pulled down as I try to escape this nightmare. Visions of black shadows appear, threatening to take me away. I fight, using all my strength to get away from these creatures. Then a soft voice, gentle, comforting, telling me to stay calm sounds in my head. I listen and let the paramedic move his hands all over my body.

I start to hear their voices again. The men standing around me- the paramedics. They are releasing me from the van. They gave me some oxygen and said I seemed clear of smoke inhalation and CO poisoning. Are they not aware of my condition?

But then I find the real reason of my release. Police come up, cuffing me and placing me in the back of a white car. I am confused by their actions, knowing quiet well that I am not to blame for this unfortunate event. Still, the blood on the front of my clothing tells them otherwise, and I am too tired to explain.

I am taken in. I am a mess. Covered with mud, blood, and grass, they do not let me get clean. Instead, they lock me in a room, small, isolated, still I cannot stop but stare at the large mirror across from me. I have seen to many movies, too many TV shows to know that people are watching.

A man walks in. Clean, professional, his suit showing no signs of wrinkles. Then he speaks. His words nothing but gibberish. There is only one question he asks that stands out. "Did you kill your parents?"

"No," I say, clear, simple, my mouth forming the word before it was even said.

"Do you know who did?" He thinks I am lying. An obvious question to ask when someone says no. In here, they only want one answer-yes.

I want to say yes, but I know deep down it is a lie. I never saw his face, I only heard his voice. "No."

He nods. "I understand how you are feeling right now, Ms. Mori, so we will talk again in a few days when you have time to mourn. For now you'll stay here in a cell."

I really hate when people say 'I understand.' The truth is they really don't understand. Its alternate universe in their head is making them believe they have gone through the same thing. Dreams. Illusions. It's what make people go insane and wind up in an asylum.

He leads me to a pay phone, the same one criminals use to beg friends and family for bail money before they are lock in jail.

"You have one phone call," the gentleman tells me.

My hand suddenly feels the small piece of soft paper in my pocket. The crumpled and faded numbers written so neatly on the sheet were compelling me to call. I pull it out, examining it. If I called it, would this stranger help me? He did give me his number on purpose. Perhaps right now it was time. "But there is one person…"

I pick the phone from the receiver, my fingers pressing the buttons carefully on the phone. Music tone alerting each time a number was pressed. I listened as it rings.

His voice is musical. When I hear it I want to jump into an ocean of neon lights and get swallowed by the aftermath of rainbow electricity.

"Yes?"

I cannot find the words. I am stuck. I take a deep breath, knowing it's now or never. This is my only chance.

"Sesshomaru, it's Rin, I need your help."

* * *

Thanks for everyone's reviews last chapter! I'm glad you are all liking it this far. Please review, and let me know what you think of this chapter!

.:Sapphire:.


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